


Whiskey Sour

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, for the fic exchange !, nothing like a late night drinking buddy and a good hug, this is mostly maysimmons but there's some simmorse in here too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 20:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11631306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: So, Bobbi's gone.Jemma's not quite sure what to do with herself. She doesn't know how she's supposed to keep losing people.May has some advice.





	Whiskey Sour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bus_Kids_Burgade (Inthemorninglight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inthemorninglight/gifts).



> happy fic exchange ;)

For a long time, May had felt like she’d lost her intuition. Her instincts. That thing that for so much of her life had told her the right play, had kept her on track and alive. When in the field, gut instincts were vital. Most of the time, you didn’t have time to sit and think about a situation, you just had to act. No gut equaled no action. No action, pain or death. So, in the field it was a necessity.

But, May found, in life it was a necessity too.

Fall down? No time to think. Get back up. Instinct. Need to read a situation? Instinct.

Can’t sleep? Find out why. Instinct.

She’d lost that after Bahrain.

She’s happy to say it’s back in working order. She’d painstakingly found her way back to that, back to being able to listen to her body when it tells her something is wrong.

And now it’s telling her something is wrong.

She sits up in her bed and toes on her slippers, because the floor in the base is always freezing and she gets cold easier than she used to (not that she’d ever admit that). She can’t get to sleep, though she’ll have to get up in only a few short hours, because something deep in her belly is telling her there’s something off. Something she needs to find out.

She makes her way out of her room and towards the common spaces. She checks the single kitchen first, because it’s on her way, but there’s nothing there. She pads quietly down the hallway, stifling a yawn. It’s been a long day, and her body is tired. She doesn’t want to say it’s because she’s getting older, but things seem to take more of a toll on her nowadays.

She realizes why she’s awake when she nears the common room. It’s not that she could hear the quiet, hitched sobs from her bedroom, but maybe a part of her knew this was going to happen.

She lets her feet make more noise as she approaches, stepping heavy in her slippers, which still don’t make much noise with their rubber bottoms, but at least warn of her arrival.

The sobs stop. Jemma is already standing and gathering her things when May turns into the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma is saying, voice wet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was up, I’ll go to my room, I just—”

“Jemma.”

Jemma stills, then turns to May with wide eyes, a box of tissues beneath her arm, a bottle in one hand, and a glass in the other. May eyes the bottle, then the glass.

“There any sour in that whiskey?”

“Um—” Jemma clears her throat, looking down at the glass. “There was some lemon juice, but it’s been … fairly diluted.”

May takes in her pink, wet cheeks, the way her hands shake just a little. Then she makes her way over to the attached kitchen and grabs herself a glass.

Jemma just stares, wide-eyed, as May sits in the chair near the couch and thunks her glass onto the coffee table.

After a few moments, May inclines her head toward the glass. Jemma almost drops her own in her scramble to pour May a few fingers of whiskey.

Still, she stands, hovers, unsure.

“Do you- um—” Her fingers tighten around the bottle. “Do you want me to go?”

“No use drinking by myself at one in the morning.”

“Right,” Jemma says, seeing it for the callout that it was. Slowly, she sinks back down onto the couch, setting the bottle and the box of tissues on the table in front of them.

May takes her time finishing her first glass, during which she notes Jemma is careful not to make any noise, or even move too much. She’s holding herself like a coiled spring, but the tears haven’t stopped dripping down her face. May is sure if Jemma could stop that on command, she would have held that in as well. But she can’t, so May drinks, and Jemma cries silently.

May sets her empty cup on the table and taps on the rim, and it’s only then that Jemma moves, but just to pour her another glass. May nods her thanks and picks it up.

Before she takes her first swallow she says, “So, Bobbi’s gone.”

Jemma bites her lip, clearly holding back a sob, and nods.

May takes a swallow, watching Jemma’s face. “She’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Jemma breathes, curling her fingers around her glass and then taking a large gulp, wincing as it goes down.

“She knows how to take care of herself.” May pauses. “But I have a feeling that’s not what’s got you so upset.”

Jemma smiles wryly, a sad sight, and shakes her head. “No. But you don’t … you don’t want to hear about it.”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Jemma’s eyes flicker over to her, then away, but she doesn’t say anything.

There’s what she was thinking about earlier. Gut instincts. She could’ve taken Jemma’s reluctance to talk as an invitation to leave, to go back to her bed satisfied that she’d investigated. And at one time, she would’ve. But her gut says she needs to push. That she can’t let the conversation end here. So she pushes.

 “You and her, you had a thing,” May observes, half a question, even though she knows the answer.

Jemma swallows hard, staring down at the amber liquid in her glass. “Yeah,” she confirms. “A ‘thing’.”

“It’s always hard losing something like that.”

Jemma nods solemnly. “Yeah.” Her face crumples, just a bit. “I don’t know … what exactly it was, that Bobbi and I had. But we had _something_ , and now it’s just … gone. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll drink to that,” May says, holding her glass towards Jemma.

Jemma takes in a shaking breath, clinks her glass against May’s, and takes a large swallow.

May swallows down her own, swirling the drink in her glass. “Do you know what always makes me feel better?”

Jemma wipes a few tears off her face. “What?”

“Remembering all the people I still have.”

Jemma doesn’t respond.

“You’re surrounded by family here, Jemma. People who would do anything for you. And I don’t want you to forget that.”

“Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it?” Jemma starts, a bitter edge to her voice that May wasn’t expecting. “You have all these people, these people you love with your whole heart, but you don’t know when you’re going to lose them. You don’t know if or when it’s going to happen. And in our line of work it happens a lot. More than it should. You get attached to people and then you don’t have them anymore. How can you trust that you’ll have anyone?”

“Jemma—”

“When I was on that planet, I lost everyone. _Everyone_ , May. My whole world taken away in the blink of an eye. How can I go through life, after something like that, without knowing it could happen again? Without … Without _waiting_ for it? I’ve had people before. Good people. People who are gone now. Hartley and Idaho, gone. Trip, gone. Will, gone. And now Hunter and Bobbi, gone too. Who can say it won’t just keep happening? Who can say that you won’t be next, or Daisy, or Fitz, or Coulson, or Mack, or anyone, anyone at all that I care about? Bobbi isn’t even dead, but who knows if I’m ever going to see her again. And I didn’t have any warning. I never do. One day I have someone in my life and the next moment—” Jemma snaps her fingers. “-taken away in a heartbeat. How can I sit here and count my blessings that I still have people in my life, when I know I might not have them very much longer? When I never know when they’re going to be taken away? Isn’t it just naive to think that I’m going to have them tomorrow?”

May takes a moment to absorb her words, and Jemma keeps wiping tears off her face, seeming frustrated that they’re still coming.

“I think,” May says, choosing her words carefully, “that a lot of people—most people—live for the future. You go to school so you can get a better job. You get a better job so you can retire. You date so you can get married and have kids. But, honestly?” May shakes her head. “I don’t think agents can live that way. We have to live for the moment, think and feel and exist for the moment—for the present. Because you’re right. We don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. We can’t plan it like most people do. We don’t know what’s in store for tomorrow. But we can live in the _right now_ , and that’s where we need to live.”

May takes a moment to sip her drink as Jemma mulls that over. “You lose people,” she continues, “and that’s never not going to hurt. But that doesn’t mean all those moments you got with them weren’t worth it. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have had them, or that you can’t appreciate them. That time you had with Bobbi, that meant something. The fact that you have us now, that means something. You don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but right here, right now, that’s what’s important. You love someone one day even if you could lose them the next.”

Jemma watches her, considering, and eventually nods. “What if …” She looks away. “What if what you’re feeling in the right now is bad?”

“Then you feel bad. You mope, you cry, you struggle. You let the moment happen. But then the next moment comes. And you don’t live for the future, but you don’t get caught up in the past, either.”

“It’s hard,” Jemma says, barely above a whisper. “It’s hard not getting caught up in everything _except_ the now.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

“But … I see what you’re saying. When I was on the planet, I was only living for the future. I felt like I had to. I felt like I didn’t have any other option. I was living on hope, always wishing tomorrow would be better, always wishing it was already there. And then, I lost my hope. I felt like I’d lost my future. And I fell apart. Completely spiraled. It took a long time to come back from that. It was only when I started living for the now that I felt okay again.”

May nods. “That’s what I’m talking about. It may not be ideal for everyone, but that’s what we have to do. We have to take things as they come.”

“How very Stoic of you,” Jemma says, trying to smile.  

May inclines her head. “Stoicism can be a bit extreme, but all their points weren’t bad. It can be a good road to take for people like us. Realistic expectations, and accepting the present for what it is. Trying to be happy with the life we have.”

“I just always feel like … like I can’t trust it, when I’m happy. Because I know it doesn’t last. But, you’re right. I need to just take the moment as it happens. If I’m happy, I shouldn’t worry about what I’ll feel next. I should just feel happy.”

“I think you’re going to be better off that way.”

“And if I’m sad …”

“Then you let yourself feel sad.”

Jemma nods, lips twisting, looking down at her lap. “Well, right now is definitely sad.”

“Anything I can do about that?” May asks.

Jemma glances up, then looks down again. “No.”

From the tone, May doesn’t believe her. She’s gotten better, but the girl is still a bad liar. “You sure?”

“It’s silly.”

“What is it, Jemma?”

Jemma presses her lips together, and gives a little shrug. “I could use a hug,” she says quietly, letting out a self-conscious chuckle.

May doesn’t have to think it over, because this is another thing she’d gotten back since Bahrain. Something she’d clawed and fought for, allowing that contact again, that comfort. And Jemma needs it, she knows. If she can give that to her, she will.

May scoots over as much as the chair will allow and pats the seat next to her.

For a moment Jemma doesn’t move, just stares, but then she stands, hovering nervously before collapsing onto the seat with May. She ends up half in her lap, legs propped over May’s, head pillowed on her shoulder, one arm wrapped around her. May rests one hand on Jemma’s leg and brings the other up to stroke through her hair. Jemma lets out a quiet sob and presses closer.

“I’ve got you,” May says, practically whispers it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s not a promise. Not for any moment except right now. Because May can’t make those kinds of promises. She doesn’t know what tomorrow is going to bring. But right here, right now … that she knows. She’s not going anywhere, not as long as Jemma needs her.

She hopes Jemma knows that.

May holds on tight, and judging by the way Jemma clings back, she knows. 


End file.
